


in which roman loses the title of crown prince

by whimsicaltwine



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders-centric, Gen, Hurt Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Prince Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Public Humiliation, Self-Esteem Issues, Unsympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Villain Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22107310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicaltwine/pseuds/whimsicaltwine
Summary: As a respected prince in line for the throne, Roman should have it all, but some people have other ideas, and when his brother tears him down, he's going to do it center stage, so that everyone can see.  Luckily, there's a group of kind people just outside the kingdom who are willing to help him out.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Deceit Sanders
Comments: 36
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this part is entirely angst - if you want to have it fixed right away, go ahead and wait for the next chapter and then read it all at once

The wood is rough and wet, slimy with rain as it grates against Roman’s skin, pressing against his cheek with a feeling like snake skin and coarse canvas all at once. He almost laughs at the irony of it all. This morning, he’d woken up in one of the softest beds in the kingdom, surrounded by rumpled layers of fine blankets that flowed into valleys and hills and crests of fabric, all bathing him in warmth and content. His pillow was a cloud stolen from the heavens. Light cascaded through the windows to gently caress his face, coax him to open his eyes, draping him in an airy golden cloak. 

Remus shifts his weight, pressing his boot harder into Roman’s back and pulling him back into the present. “Look,” he shouts, his voice shrill and mocking, a mischievous creature running and skipping through a forest, “at this! He’s so pathetic!” It’s said with laughter. Beyond them, the crowd jeers, an ocean of voices that rises and falls in little waves, crashing over Roman where he lies with his face pressed to the platform, raised up for all to see. Remus steps off him. For a moment, Roman thinks he can stand up, thinks he’ll be able to tow himself to his feet under the icy mist of rain and at least go out fighting, with his dignity intact, but no sooner can he get his hands under him than something hurdles into his side, driving right into the soft space between his ribs and his hips. It _hurts._ With a wheeze, Roman rolls onto his side and curls around himself, wrapping his arms around his middle as the toe of Remus’ boot retreats. Roman’s eyes travel up, up over his boots and his black pants and all the frills and layers of his clothes to see his brother giggling, his morning star casually rested on his shoulder. He towers over Roman like the turrets of the castle, the ones that stretch into the sky so far it seems they brush the ceiling of the world, the ones that make you feel as small and insignificant as an ant gazing up at the majesty of human creations. 

With a snarl like the thundering footsteps of an army, Roman wrenches himself up off the ground. Stumbling to his feet, he glares at Remus, every inch of his body all pulled taught like a line about to snap, leaving him bristling with all the aggression of a threatened animal. His shoulders rise up, his hands curl into claws, he bears his teeth.

Slowly, Remus’ features shift and change, his eyes widening, a grin sliding its way onto his face like a cat slinking its way along a wall. “Oh, _there‘s_ my brother!” he taunts, beginning to pace around Roman. As he moves, prowling forward with barley restrained glee, Roman’s line of sight is opened to who’s standing behind him: Dee.

His cape shields his shoulders from the thin, light rain, its dark fabric falling over his arms like a shroud of deep, black water, and his bright yellow gloves jump out against the dull day and his dark clothes like a poisonous animal about to strike. The scars on his face paint his impassive expression with a landscape of twisted bumps and lines.

Roman’s eyes widen, his gaze locking onto Dee as a gear shifts and clicks into place in his mind. Of course. Remus, Remus is wild and violent, an untamable creature with an insatiable thirst for gore. Remus is the one that doesn’t take prisoners, the one that rampages across battlefields and leaves dead bodies scattered like birdseed in his wake, but the one thing that he can’t do is think ahead. Remus lives life as it comes at him; a coup is beyond his abilities.

But Dee, Dee is a different beast altogether. He’s ambitious, and can use his words to leave people chasing their tails, and oh, this is all his doing.

There, with tiny bullets of cold rain pelting his skin, a realization sinks through Roman’s chest and settles in his stomach like lead. All this time, this storm has been brewing right besides Roman, in the very halls he walks every day, in the officials he meets with and even the knights he commands. Hell, it’s orchestrated by his best and most trusted friend, and Roman? He was too stupid to notice.

In that moment, as he looks at Dee, Roman can’t drag up the conviction to fight before it’s too late and there’s something swiftly colliding with the back of his knees, bringing him crashing to the ground like a felled tree. Sparks of laughter play from the crowd.

“Go for his hair!” one brave soul yells, and Remus cackles like leaves crinkling underfoot, delighted. _Not my hair,_ Roman thinks, a short shroud of panic draping over his mind, only for his thoughts to recoil and snap back, pointing out how fucking _ridiculous_ that is. Virgil was right. He’s a vain, conceited brat, isn’t he? A worthless artist, too, one that only gets praise because of the convention that you don’t insult royalty. 

Remus swings his morning star around, his boots roving across Roman’s vision as he addresses the crowd. “Wonderful idea,” he’s crowing, “but I dunno. All this mud and rain… my shoes are getting kind of dirty, don’t you think?”

Despite himself, Roman almost huffs out a little laugh. That’s Remus for you, jumping back and forth between topics like a soccer ball getting kicked around a field, but something doesn’t quite match up. A roar of exclamations sweep over the crowd, and Roman catches a couple of people in the marsh of bodies with hands over their mouths, their eyes wide with something akin to horror, but he doesn’t have long to look before Remus grabs him by the arm with a clawed grip, all fingernails and bones, and wrenches him up to his knees. He must catch those expressions, too, because there’s a familiar smile on his face, the one he gets when there’s anticipation behind whatever he’s about to say or do. “Oh don’t worry, I bet it’s not the first time he’s been on his knees,” he says, and with that, the crowd erupts into laughter and jeers in perfect time with the blush that erupts across Roman’s face. He ducks his head, hiding from the crowd. With his eyes glued to the boards below him, Remus’ boot is in full focus when he sets it in front of him. “Go on,” Remus prompts, and then, in response to a confused look from Roman, continues, “Lick it, oh perfect prince.”

Roman feels sick.

This isn’t happening to him, there’s no way this is happening to him. It’s all a dream, it has to be. In a moment, Roman will wake up with moonlight gracing his bedroom and twist around to clutch his pillow to his chest until he recovers from the nightmare, and then once his troubles drift out the window and into the night, he’ll settle back down into his warm, soft blankets and sink back into sleep like a paper boat drifting away from the shore of a lake.

And then Remus’ voice is back. “Do it,” he says, his voice full of anger-tinted urgency. Roman stares at the ground, and fuck, no, those are tears gathering in his eyes. Pathetic.

But it’s one thing to know he is on the verge of crying, and another for the thousands of people gathered to see how pathetic he really is. It’s another for them to laugh at him again.

He is _not_ going to cry.

“Go on, dear brother,” Remus taunts. A moment passes. Around them, the crowd has lapsed into quiet, their attention fixed wholeheartedly on the frozen scene up on the stage, where Roman gazes at the muddy knees of his white pants. Birds chirp in the distance, an uncaring harmony to the tide of mumbling that laps at the edge of the platform.

All of the sudden, a scream rushes out over everything like a shockwave, shill and screeching like metal against metal. _“Do it!”_ Remus cries, his voice the winds of a seaside storm. Hundreds of people are watching Roman from every angle.

Some part of his chest tight with stress and something just left of panic, Roman gulps, blinks to force back tears, and lowers himself onto his hands and knees, crouching to the ground. He’s shaking, he belatedly realizes. Slowly, painfully, Roman lowers himself farther to the ground and does what his brother asks.

It tastes like mud and leather and the dirty hay in the bottom of the stables, and when Roman gags, he’s not sure if it’s because of the taste or the knowledge that he just did that with half the city gathered to watch, and his heart is sinking viscerally in his chest but he won’t cry, dammit. He is not going to cry. From above him, Remus’ laughter falls onto his back like taunts from the gods. Even when he feels him step away, Roman stays curled there over the ground, hiding away from the faces of the crowd as he listens to Remus shout, “Is this your king? Is this the noble leader of this land?”

The crowd responds with a wave of cries that tangle their way into wordlessness, but wind around Roman’s neck and begin to choke him all the same. The wood of the platform is all blurred and watery beneath him, but he will not cry.

Remus basks in the attention for a few more moments, and when Roman is wrenched up from the ground, the coldness of the hands that do it tell him it’s Dee, which renews the sting of betrayal. Virgil would probably snarl at this point, fight and claw and glare with every ounce of hostility he had to muster—no, no, Virgil would’ve done that long before this point, and he would’ve started by spitting in Remus‘ face with a challenge in his eyes and defiance cracking around him like lighting.

But Roman, Roman sits and takes it. Limp and lifeless in the early spring rain, he stands still as Dee fastens chains around his wrist and, brushing his gloves off, hands him off to a guard. With a few words and a giddy grin, Remus gets the crowd to part, leaving a path into the street and to the imposing walls at the edge of the city, and with that, they march Roman out.

People stare. Some laugh and point, some look on in horror, and some regard him with patronizing pity, but they all stare, and every pair of eyes follows him, piles up on his back until he’s shrinking in on himself even further, trying to escape even when there is nowhere to hide. Even with his gaze fixed on his feet, the stares find him through the wide eyes of a little girl with mousy blonde hair, who clings to her mother’s hand and sucks on her knuckles as her big, brown eyes follow Roman down the street.

His heart has sunken out of his chest and left something hollow behind. Ahead of him, he can hear Remus interacting with the crowd, waving and joking and offering friendly pats to shoulders, no doubt with a big smile on his face as he dances through the city. It’s like he’s leeched all Roman’s energy out of him and taken it for himself.

After what seems like thousands of years, thousands of miles of walking through that sea of people with his dignity torn from him like wrapping paper, they finally reach the city walls. Old and strong, they’re sunken into the ground a bit as if the earth is coming up to greet them and welcome the stone as its own.

They’re not even bothering with the city gates. No, Roman gets thrown out a little side passage. Guards come up to grip at him on either side, one hand on his arms and one on his back, and in one synchronized moment, toss him out onto the ground like sailors loading cargo; he lands hard on his shoulder and hip, bone meeting hard ground in a sharp bit of contact that rattles his teeth, makes him grunt in pain.

As the guards take up positions on either side of the little door, Remus steps out, the frills on his shoulders bouncing as he crouches down in front of Roman to tilt his head like a cat and bathe him in mock sadness. “Oh, Roman, Roman, Roman,” he laments, giving his head a slow shake, “always the better brother, always the better prince, the crown jewel of the kingdom. Roman the gracious, Roman the brave, Roman the talented. 

“But wait,” he continues, overplaying surprise, “that’s not true anymore. You’re a pathetic nobody laying out in the forest, and everybody knows it!” A grin makes its way onto his features by the end, a giddy thing that Roman has seen time and time again, all throughout his life, and it stays in place as Remus stands up, skips back to the outer edge of the kingdom, and puts out a hand to prop himself up on the doorway. With a giggle, he chirps, “See you never!” and disappears back into the city. 

There, alone on the hard ground as the rain turns from a fine mist to a proper shower, Roman is the only one around to see as he finally lets himself cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently this is going to be three chapters now, funny how that happens

The mornings really are beautiful. A soft, hazy spring mist hangs over the world, a gentle backdrop to birds chirping out their morning songs, crickets calling from damp little spaces, and little frogs chirping in the trees, and dew drops abandon the undergrowth in favor of teaming up to dampen the hems of Patton’s pants as he strolls through the forest, swinging the wicker basket he carries to an imaginary rhythm. His eyes aren’t on his feet, though, leaving the gentle slope of the forest floor for the lattice of tree branches that weave intricate patterns above him, each one dotted with little red buds ready to make their debut.

Up on the branches, a squirrel skitters over the wood with the frantic energy of someone late for work, chattering as it goes. Patton grins. Ducking under a collection of low-hanging branches, he steps out into the clearing just outside of the city, where the great stone walls rise up from the ground like mountains and the trees fall away to reveal a little patch of blue sky peeking through the soft, even blanket of gray clouds that hangs there with fierce persistence. Taking a moment to stand there and soak in the timid bit of sunlight, Patton smiles. The world is starting up again, and he can’t wait.

And so it’s with a spring in his step (ha, spring) that he walks up towards the city; despite the busy, loud, and crowded world that waits for him on his way to buy the fabrics he wants, nothing can get in the way of his good mood, not the noise, not pushing through the throngs of people on the main streets, not even vendors grabbing his arm to try and sell him something he doesn’t want. Yesterday’s rain has left everything fresh and new, and today is going to be a great day.

His good mood doesn’t make it more than twenty steps.

At first, he thinks the muddy lump lying up ahead is a pile of discarded trash, or maybe some unlucky animal, but then it moves, squirms and shuffles in a strained struggle, and he can make out a figure. Patton’s eyes go wide as every part of his body stiffens.

That’s a _person._

His previous plans abandoned, he rushes up to them, his footsteps leaving squishy imprints in the mud behind him, his short little cloak flying back over his shoulders and dancing in the chilly air. As soon as he gets there, he crouches down next to the body, his hands flitting over them like nervous butterflies, unsure where to land.

“Oh my goodness,” he says, the words spilling out of his mouth like water, “are you okay?” The person gives a miserable, broken little sound, and just like that, Patton’s heart breaks right along with any resolve to see if they’re going to get up on their own. Grabbing their shoulders, he tows them up into a sitting position, getting the front of his shirt and the sleeves all smudged with mud in the process, but it’s nothing compared to the stranger, who looks as if they’ve been out here all night. God, are those cuffs on their wrists? 

Patton takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he starts, his voice only trembling the tiniest bit, “um, I’m Patton, he/him. Are you okay?” 

The stranger doesn’t say anything for a moment, looking off to the side and opening their mouth as if they can’t quite come up with an answer, but eventually says, “It’s Roman. He/him as well.” His face is cleaner than the rest of him—still dirty, but dirty like a kid just coming in from outside, not dirty like the rest of his body, soggy and pitiful and caked with mud. He has dark eyes, eyes that seem to want to look at anything except Patton, eyes that dart around between the trees and the ground and his own hands and anything except for Patton, who kneels there patiently, his shins growing cold from the soggy ground. When he speaks next, it’s hesitant and quiet, like he isn’t quite sure it’s what he wants to say. “I, um, seem to have found myself in quite the predicament.”

Well that’s an understatement. Everything about him, from the way he holds himself to his soft voice to his filthy clothes, reeks of defeat. Without any further discussion, Patton clambers to his feet and holds out his arm for Roman, pulling him back up and out of the shadow of the great city wall, because his decision has already been made, set in stone without so much as a conscious thought as soon as he’d seen Roman: this man deserves better, and he’s coming home with Patton.

The walk back to the house isn’t long. It’s longer than most of Patton’s daily commutes, sure, but easier, too, all flat ground and straight trail, with scarcely a stray root in the way. As the morning chill begins to lift, Patton tries to make conversation, adding his voice to the chirps and chatters of the birds that are seized by the spirit of the morning and driving away the creeping silence that’s started to wind around his chest, weave between his ankles and threaten to trip him up. “I can’t wait for winter to be over,” he tries. “I love the snow, and I love how cozy it feels to sit by a fire when it’s cold, but sometimes it just gets to be too still, you know? I think spring has gotta be my favorite season, because you get to see all the flowers — oh, and the baby animals!” he squeals, the image bringing up a grin he hopes is contagious. “What’s your favorite season?”

It takes Roman a moment to answer. Having tasked himself with swiping the mud off his hands as best he can, he keeps his eyes down in a way Patton privately tags as evasion before finally answering, “All the seasons have a unique sort of beauty, I guess.” There’s a lull, there, one that Patton opens his mouth to fill, but then Roman continues, “I like summer.”

Patton nods. “Summer is nice. You wanna know what my favorite thing about summer is?” After receiving an imploring look from Roman, Patton turns back to watch the trail and says, “Fireflies.” There’s no response.

The rest of the walk passes similarly; Patton fills the silence with cheerful, inane chatter that carries up and collects among the branches of the trees, gathers along either side of the path, and forms little puddles in the impressions of their footsteps while Roman follows him like a shadow, the picture of defeat, and occasionally offers halfhearted responses. By the time they reach the house, Patton is gritting his teeth, but his grip on Roman’s arm remains soft as ever.

“So this is home,” Patton says, stepping up onto the porch. It’s small, but there are the beginnings of a garden out in front, which boasts a few trellices ready for beans to wind their way up and a collection of little garden beds that are dark from the rain. On one side of the house, ivy creeps up, covering it in a fluffy blanket of dark leaves that venture up farther still to tangle their way into the thatched roof. Patton opens the door, takes one look inside, and then freezes.

Logan sits at the table, right where Patton left him, but instead of being alone as he squints at the collection of stories he’s copying, there’s someone else there, a second stranger of the early morning. Shrouded by a dark cloak that skims his ankles, he stands back against the wall like a lingering spirit, his hood flopping down to obscure his face in shadow as the hem of the cloak sways and curves in invisible little gusts of air by the floor. Logan looks up from his work. “Ah, Patton,” he says, before pausing with a few rapid, confused blinks as he stutters like a rusty machine. “You’re back early, and without the fabric you set out to purchase, as well. Did something happen?” The stranger stands there, silent.

Setting his empty basket just inside the door, Patton offers his story. “I found someone who needed help on the way there. You haven’t made tea for our guest, yet?”

Logan blinks. “He expressed a desire for me to refrain from making tea for him.” Patton shakes his head, getting back on track.

“So, Logan,” he says, a nervous little smile gracing his face, “um, any chance you know how to pick locks?” 

Incredulous, Logan leans back in his chair, but before he can answer, the stranger says, “I do,” and steps forward without another word, his cloak swishing around his feet as one hand ventures from the safety of the dark fabric, brandishing a shiny set of lock picks all gathered together on a key ring. They glint in the light as he sweeps out of the house. Bewildered, Patton and Logan crowd into the doorway, their limbs getting all twisted up as they trip over each other in their quest for a good view.

“His name is Virgil,” Logan provides as they watch him stride out to join Roman, who steps back at first, an unmistakable flash of recognition sparking up in his eyes, a catalyst for the way he turns himself away from Virgil, his shoulders twisting as if to shield himself from him. 

Patton stills. “They know each other.”

The words that Virgil and Roman exchange are urgent things, each syllable thrown out like a bite or a hiss, but still too quiet to hear from the doorway, even as Logan leans forward against Patton’s arm in an attempt to catch a few stray words. Whatever Virgil says seems to work. In only a few moments, Roman’s hastily constructed defenses to collapse again, falling away into the same air of defeat that’s been hanging on him as he tentatively offers his wrists and lets Virgil get to work.

Logan shifts against Patton’s back; he’s going to say something. “Patton,” he says, his voice like ice threatening to crack, “I would like to inquire just what possessed you to believe that bringing a positively filthy man, who, if the restraints fasted to his wrists are any indication, is quite possibly not only a criminal, but a _dangerous_ criminal.”

Patton blinks, and then dumbly offers, “I didn’t think about that at the time?” As his shoulders rise to his ears in an exaggerated shrug and a sheepish smile creeps its way onto his face, Logan pins him against the wall with a deadpan stare strong enough to make kings squirm, but by this point, they’ve both had some practice. Patton knows Logan’s most powerful threat is the cold shoulder, and Logan’s been living with him long enough to know that getting Patton to stop offering love at the slightest invitation is as futile as trying to make the wind change directions, and so they reach a stalemate and pull back their forces within seconds.

“All the same,” Logan says, giving an exasperated little huff as he crosses his arms, “I would rather he be free of mud before coming inside. I will gather some clothing that will likely be appropriate for him.” With that, Logan disappears from the doorway, leaving Patton to check on Virgil’s progress only to find him right on the steps, a pair of remarkably muddy handcuffs dangling from one hand. He’s swept his hood back; now, Patton can see that he has pale, pale skin and delicate, slender features framed by dark hair that accompanies even darker eyes, which hold all the energy of a brewing storm distilled and concentrated into heavy onyx.

“I’m assuming you don’t want to keep these.”

“No, I don’t,” Patton says, to which Virgil responds by winding his arm back, twisting his body around to gather momentum, and, with a movement like rushing water, hurling them into the distance, where they promptly land and stay there, stuck in the mud.

Before Patton can draw up any kind of reaction, Logan appears in the doorway as if by magic, a collection of neatly folded clothing, towels, and soap tucked against his chest. He hands them over. “Patton, I assume you would like to accompany them down to the creek?” With a nod, Patton walks back out to Roman, who’s making use of his newly-freed hands to swipe as much mud off of himself as possible, which is working decently on his skin, but not so well on his clothes.

“Come on,” Patton offers, trotting past him with Logan’s neat bundle cradled in his arms, “Logan found some clothes and things for you, kiddo. We’ll have you clean in no time!” Tossing a look over his shoulder to make sure Roman is following him, he sets off towards the creek, his feet finding the familiar path with the ease of routine. Soon enough, the forest opens up into a strip of empty sky, unobstructed by trees, and the sure ground beneath them tumbles away in a steep incline where tangled roots peek out from the ground like little animals poking their noses out of their burrows. Unfurling Logan’s careful folding work, Patton sets to hanging it all from a tree branch, gently arranging each piece to keep them from touching the ground. Once he’s done, he steps over to Roman, who is staring out into the water with a look that conceals just a hint of trepidation mixed up in all the quiet apathy that rules his features. “You’ll be fine,” he reassures him, hands him the soap, and then retreats, leaving the crest of the little ridge behind as he walks to the house to give Roman some privacy.

As the building comes into view between the trees, Patton catches sight of Logan’s dark shirt. He’s facing away, leaning against the railing as the rhythmic tone of his voice drifts out over the air, lingering on the barest hint of a breeze, hanging on each new little bud, and weaving its way through the trees to reach Patton’s ears. He smiles.

Once he’s closer, he can make out Virgil tucked into the chair by the door, his cloak gathering at the corners of the chair only to spill off of the seat with his legs. “In conclusion,” Logan is finishing, “while I have no previously existing manuscripts to reproduce, I have found that there is equal merit in recording the narratives presented by travelers who, by various means, find their way to our home, or, in some cases, encounter me while I am running errands. Once I’ve created a sufficient transcript, it logically follows that the best course of action is to produce multiple copies, so that I may sell the resulting manuscripts to anyone interested in them.” Punctuating the speech with an adjustment of his glasses, he pulls out his journal and a pen. “Now, that being said, do you have any stories you are willing to contribute?”

Glancing towards Virgil, Patton chuckles. Understandably, Virgil’s eyes are wide, and his gaze flicks rapidly from Logan’s face to his journal and back again; he’s a bit overwhelmed. Patton tromps up the stairs, fixing a reassuring smile on his face as he goes, and sets a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “You should tell your stories, if you have any. You can even go back and edit them with Logan later, so don’t be afraid of stuttering or misremembering anything. Now, you two keep an eye out for Roman. I’m going to go get some food ready.” With that, he steps through the doorway, leaving them to it.

Inside, the fire still flicks weakly at the edges of the charred black logs that kept them warm through the night, now brittle husks of themselves, and Patton and Logan’s chairs are neatly pushed up against the table, which lines the wall to the left. Careful not to knock anything over, Patton pulls the other two chairs from their little nook behind the cabinets.

The space is a little cramped, sure, but homey, with little bits of life scattered all around the room. But Patton isn’t here for the dried flowers that grace the edge of the shelf over the table or the quilts that cover the beds, and so he quickly sets to work, sourcing half a loaf of bread, a knife, and some cheese to melt on top of each slice before kneeling down besides the fire to get to work. It’s not much, but it’ll make a fine breakfast on short notice.

No sooner does he finish than Roman pads into the room, all wrapped up in Virgil’s cloak. With a smile, Patton stands up to greet him. “Did the clothes fit alright, kiddo?” he asks, setting the final piece of cheese bread on a plate with the rest of them. Nodding, Roman sits down on the floor besides him, crossing his legs so that the dark fabric of the cloak pools in his lap as he reaches forward to take some food.

“Are you feeling better?” Roman swallows, then leans back and props himself up on one hand, a shy little half-smile slotting into place, wavering like it takes all his energy to keep it there.

“Much better,” he says. A moment passes in silence before, with a tilt of his head, he adds, “Thank you.”

Roman’s voice is rich and low, a sound like the ancient power of an old, old forest guarded by giant trees that scrape the sky packed up into a box and set to the music of a cello, and every word that drifts from his mouth is packed full with expression, with emotion; it’s the voice of a storyteller, the rare soul that not only recites their tale for Logan to record, but preforms it, throwing in a pinch of passion and dash of acting until they’ve mixed up something that has you well and truly entranced. Right now, Roman’s words are filled to the brim with the kind of tired that only comes from the end of an exhausting, bad day, the sort of day where you want nothing more than to curl up in bed and let the covers shield you from it all. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” he says.

Concern washes over Patton, softening his eyes and shoulders. “How long were you out there?”

At that, Roman curls in on himself, a flower closing once the sun has retreated behind the hills, and answers, “Since just after midday,” which draws a gasp from Patton, who immediately rushes forward and seizes Roman’s soft hand up in his rough ones like someone is trying to steal it from him.

“Oh, honey,” Patton says, something inside his chest striking a resonant chord of sympathy that bounces all around his body, vibrating down his arms and through his veins and along every bone that bears him up. Patton can see it, see how something in Roman breaks just like the clay jar he’d dropped yesterday. God, he’s so _hurt._

Before Patton can offer a hug or a listening ear, however, Roman pries himself off the floor, his legs unfolding and carrying him back up into the world around them, where Patton can do nothing but wonder what could’ve possibly happened to Roman to leave him like this. “Is there a bed I could use?”

Patton nods. “Of course.” The little house only has two rooms, so it takes no time at all to lead Roman away from the fire, across the worn wood of the floor, and through the curtain that hangs over the doorway to arrive in a cozy little space with two beds, one tucked up against each corner. Glancing towards Logan’s neatly made bed, Patton fights a blush.

“This one’s mine,” he says, stepping forward to fluff out the crumpled covers like a bird busy in its nest, “and you can rest here as long as you want.” Roman nods.

He’s stooped down to kneel on the floor, one foot set out in front of him so he can deftly unlatch the shiny buckles up the sides with practiced ease, his gaze already fixed on the bed. Unlike the rest of him, Roman’s shoes are still a little muddy. He’s done the best he can without getting them too wet to wear, it looks like, but he still has to wipe his hands off on Virgil’s cloak once he’s discarded both to the floor. Finally, he pulls the cloak off his shoulders.

Climbing into the bed, he shifts and shuffles around for a moment to get comfortable. “Sleep well,” Patton wishes, and then ducks back into the main room, where Logan is waiting, leaning heavily on the table as he pours over his journal, his eyes scanning the words with such intense focus that it separates him from the world around him, casting the brown tones of their home into a blurry, irrelevant amalgamation of background. His head snaps up with the jerky movements of a rusty machine as he hears Patton approach, closing his journal and setting it to the side with brisk efficiency.

“Patton,” he says, reaching up to adjust his glasses, “there is something outside you need to see.” With that, he disappears out through the doorway and onto the porch, only to peek back in a moment later, holding himself up from a solid grip on the doorframe that leaves him tilted like a picture knocked to the side. “Patton, are you coming?” Shaking himself off, Patton follows. 

Out on the porch, Roman’s clothes, still stained with the watery remains of mud, hang over the railing, all shriveled up, wrinkled, and clinging to themselves. As Patton wanders through the doorway, Logan briskly strides over to them, pulling one limp collection of fabric up off the railing and fighting with it in an effort to untangle it and spread it out. After a moment, he succeeds, holding it up in from of him.

Patton’s eyes find the shiny lines across the chest first, traveling over each of them and the little flecks of gold all woven in with the yellow before wandering to the sleeves, where red, red roses tumble down the fabric, each intricate flower blooming from a winding tangle of green studded with precise little thorns. He gasps. Unable to help himself, he reaches one hand out, slow and tentative, the kind of awed and gentle touch you offer towards a wild animal, and trails his hand across the embroidery, soaking in the artwork and imagining what it’d be like to work with materials like that himself. The stitches are so tiny and uniform that he has to really look to see them, and the red of the roses is as vibrant as a piece of a summer sunset. These kinds of things don’t come cheap. 

Finally, Patton draws back his hand, glancing up to look at Logan. “These are Roman’s clothes?”

Logan nods. “What you see here is the clothing he returned from the creek with, yes. As you’ve no doubt noticed, the price of similar items suggests that he is likely a person in possession of no small amount of wealth, but you don’t have all of the available information, either. Look,” he says, turning the shirt and holding up the top of the sleeve in his hands. There, right on the stained fabric, is a symbol that Patton instantly recognizes; the outline of a shield, the swirling dashes of yellow are familiar. It’s the royal crest. 

“Oh,” Patton breathes, taking the garment up in his hands. Sweeping a thumb over the delicately embroidered crest, he glances up to Logan, who stands as straight and tall as ever, his hands neatly folded behind his back. He’s tapping his foot insistently against the sturdy floor of the porch.

“Roman is nobility,” Logan says, his face slipping into the familiar expression he gets when he’s thinking his way through a puzzle, “or perhaps even a member of the royal family. The fact that we found him tossed out of the city and covered in mud, restrained no less, could indicate one of two things. Either Roman has committed a crime of some sort and was exiled from the kingdom as a result, or, although it’s much less likely, he’s been forcibly removed from power by an unknown party with ill intent.” Before Logan can say anything more, however, Patton speaks up.

Sending a soft, concerned glance back towards the door, his hand worrying at the hem of his shirt, Patton lets out a slow, heavy breath, the air leaving his body as thoughts fill it, and says, “I don’t think he’s a criminal.” Logan opens his mouth to speak; Patton cuts him off before he can. “If he is,” he gets out, the words coming quick and fast as he rushes to beat Logan, “I don’t think he’s dangerous. Maybe he didn’t have any other options. And anyway, did you see him?” He sighs, deflating. “He needs help, Logan.”

Patton can see it in the slump of Logan’s shoulders; he’s relented. “Alright,” Logan confirms, “but please, Patton, I encourage you not to let your guard down. I am aware you would like to help him, but it makes no logical sense to do so at the expense of your own health and safety, especially if he is a man who has led himself to this outcome by his own actions.” 

Nodding, Patton sits down on the steps, his fingers absentmindedly reaching out to trace meaningless little loops and swirls against the damp wood. Out in the tangle of trees, a squirrel darts across the ground, stops for a moment, and then scurries off once again, scared off by a figure that creeps forward past the tree trunks, covered in dark brown clothing that would make him blend into the forest perfectly, if not for his pale skin standing out against the dark ground. From besides Patton, Logan speaks up. “Ah, there’s Virgil. He elected to take a walk in the woods some time ago, before Roman returned.” There’s a pause, then, one where they sit and watch him slide through the forest like a ghost, each plant swaying in time with his footsteps until Logan shifts his grip on the porch railing, a rearranged footstep making a soft sound against the wood floor.

Patton just sits there, watching Virgil approach. Now that Roman has his cloak, Patton can see his dark hair falling over his eyes in feathery little strands and the pockets and pouches hanging off the belt slung over his waist. He smiles. Leaning forward, Patton braces his hands on the ground in preparation to push himself off the steps, but before he can get up, Logan’s voice, unceremonious as ever, sounds out over his head. “How do you and Roman know each other?” he asks, sending Patton — and Virgil, it looks like — into an immediate panic.

“Based on the evidence I have at my disposal,” Logan continues, ”I’ve been able to conclude that he possesses, or, perhaps, previously possessed, a significant position in the nearby kingdom’s court, but, as I have insufficient data to draw any other conclusions, I find myself at a figurative standstill.” By now, Virgil’s eyes are wide, darting from Logan to Patton to the doorway behind them; Patton’s face twists up in sympathy. “If you are able to provide more information, it would be much appreciated,” Logan finishes. With a sigh, Patton stands. He winces when he sees Virgil flinch at the movement.

Logan’s not very good at knowing when or when not to say things, he knows that, but usually the most it does is make him look a little odd, which is nothing to be worried about. Occasionally, however, he’ll manage to make a mess of things and not even realize it. Virgil looks about two seconds away from bolting, his whole body tense with energy that seizes his legs and arms, keeps him coiled tight and ready to snap at any moment, and Patton, after giving Logan a meaningful nudge, calls out to him with a soft voice like a heavy blanket that holds you to the bed all cozy and warm, pressing any hint of uncertainty out of your limbs.

“It’s okay,” he says, slowly making his way down the steps. “You don’t have to tell us anything.” Virgil doesn’t move by the time Patton takes his first few steps across the soft ground, and he doesn’t move when Patton continues, “Logan just wants to know if he’s out here because he’s a criminal, or something. He’s just worried.” Bit by bit, the tension starts to seep out of Virgil’s limbs, leaving him with his head ducked down and his shoulders raised as he fixes a wary look on Patton, a silent interrogation that, after a moment, moves over Patton’s shoulder and on to Logan, who’s fixed his eyes on a bird off to the side, his eyes bright with fascination.

Virgil sighs, a thing tinted with the grumbling of an unhappy compromise. “Alright,” he says, his eyes flicking up to Patton’s for a moment, “I don’t want to tell you any details, but I’ll tell you what happened, ok?” Shifting on his feet, he sends a glance towards the door. “Just—just not here.” Patton nods, offering a little smile.

Calling out to get Logan’s attention, Patton waves him over and turns to Virgil. “There’s a nice spot to sit a little ways into the forest up ahead, ok?” With a nod, Virgil follows him into the trees.

After only a minute or two of walking, Patton can spot the fallen tree up ahead, soft moss clinging to the lower half of its giant trunk like it’s been dipped in paint. He speeds up to get there. It’s hard to clamber up the way he usually does, the rain turning every little bit of nature that cloaks the wood into a slippery layer that leaves Patton’s shoes slipping right off until Virgil finally offers him a hand, hoisting Patton up with a small grunt before shifting aside to collect Logan, who eyes the wet surface with apprehension.

Once they’re all up, Patton with his legs crossed, Virgil with his hands shoved in his pockets, and Logan sitting there gingerly, touching as little of the log as possible, Patton can see Virgil close his eyes and take in a deep breath that expands in his chest like a sound, sneaking its way into every crevice of his body before drawing back as he opens his eyes again. Finally, Virgil starts his story.

“So, um, I grew up with Roman and his brother. I hated it, because they were the princes and I wasn’t so they just ordered me around all the time, but I did see them a lot, so I always knew what was going on. At some point — the twins were about ten, I think — there was some kind of diplomatic drama and the queen and her husband both had a lot to do so they decided to find a babysitter, which I get, because, well, yeah,” Virgil stutters, his eyes fixed down as he uses his fingernails to scrape bits of bark off the log. Patton shakes his head, refocusing.

“Wait, so Roman’s the prince?” Shocked, Patton recoils, his eyes wide, and sifts through his first encounter with him, the one where he’d pulled a pitiful stranger out of the mud like a child’s discarded toy, struggling to reconcile the two images.

With a glare, Virgil responds, “Yeah, him and his twin brother Remus. Keep up. Anyway, they needed a babysitter so they hired some kid from town named Dee, a blacksmith’s son, I think. He was around fourteen and I was like, eight, but even then I could tell there was something up with this guy. Remus and Roman, on the other hand? Completely clueless. Dee played their games and complimented their artwork — oh, and then that time with the queen, I fucking swear—“

“Excuse me?” Logan cuts in. Patton can see him twisting his hands up in the bottom of his shirt, his mind turning the words over and over as he puts each new piece of information in place; he’s itching for his notebook, to write this all down, but Virgil already looks unsteady enough, even if a little bit of anger has jumped into his eyes and sped up his words, firing each idea out with a spark of emotion.

“Yeah, so it’d been about a year since he started. The queen came back to collect her kids, and as soon as she started talking this guy turned on the flattery, totally just went for it. But then,” he growls, “he kept doing it. Every time someone in a position of power was near him, he organized the twins’ clothes or complimented the instatement of a new royal policy or — or — _something,_ and then once they liked him, he started dropping hints that he was way smart. I remember one time, there was this banquet with visiting diplomats. I had to sit by Remus, so I spent the whole dinner about two seconds away from committing treason while trying to lean in just the right way so that I could catch a glimpse of the clock and see when it would be over, but Dee was right across from the king, next to the people he was negotiating with. He was listening to them talk, and then all the sudden he threw in a suggestion. I remember getting nervous for him, almost, because I was absolutely sure the king was going to stand up, stop the whole thing, and send him out right in front of everybody, but instead he just gave him this shocked look like he’d discovered a bar of gold sitting in the middle of the hallway and _took the suggestion._

“So yeah, there was no way Dee wasn’t doing it on purpose. And Roman — we used to sort of get along as kids, you know? He was a jerk to me sometimes, sure, but we were like, five and I was always horrible right back when that happened. One time he gave me his toy sword and we played pretend that he was the king and I was his knight, and we had to defeat his brother to save his stuffed animals,” Virgil says, his eyes softening like melted chocolate, his hand pausing in its quest to tear up bark. He clenches his fist. “But he loved Dee so much. Once the king and queen gave Dee a position in the court and he started rising through the ranks, there were even more inseparable than before. They would pass me in the halls sometimes, and Roman would be laughing like crazy over something Dee said, practically wheezing, but they would ignore me, if they noticed me at all. I almost wanted to laugh, because I could see how, once Dee stopped getting anywhere with the king and queen, he turned that flattery to Roman and his artwork.”

With a sigh, Virgil tosses a final piece of bark, the little piece of wood falling down, down, down until it hits the forest floor and blends in like a drop of water among the ocean. Patton wants to take his hand.

On Virgil’s other side, Logan adjusts his glasses, leaning forward with a little frown on his face, annoyed by the interruption, and shoots off a sharp, “What about Remus?”

Virgil shakes himself off. “They may be twins, but Roman is a few minutes older, so it was always going to be him that became the king. As kids, they got along fine, but as they got older, Roman started getting more lessons, more attention, more affection. Remus was already… weird to start off with, but as the divide between him and Roman got bigger and bigger he just got more and more jealous. Dee’s smart. He must’ve noticed that and realized that there was no point in getting close to Roman and influencing his decisions as king when he could just use Remus instead.”

As the information sinks in, Logan rocks back, exited, and jumps in, “And, by offering the crown to Remus, who wanted recompense for years and years of existing as a footnote to the royal family, he could construct the terms of the deal in a way that would grant him much more power than he would have otherwise! Oh, that is brilliant.” He’s muttering by the end, fidgeting with his tie as he goes over everything.

At that, Virgil gives Patton an urgent look, the kind Patton’s seen parents give older siblings as the younger one runs off, all tense and demanding. With a nod and a reassuring smile cut from soft afternoon sunlight, Patton slides off the log, his feet landing solidly on the ground among Virgil’s pile of tree bark, and steps across to take Logan’s hand, helping him down as well. “Logan,” he starts, “That’s probably not the best story to write down. And I doubt Roman wants to talk about it, ok?” Logan nods. Looking out into the forest and reviewing Virgil’s story in his head, Patton starts pushing around the building blocks of an idea, thinking of the beaten down prince cuddled up in Patton’s bed and all the pain the world has given him. “Virgil,” he says, slowly, everything still shuffling around in his mind, “you said he likes art?”


	3. Chapter 3

When they get back to the house, they’re greeted by the sound of someone crying. Logan hears it first, going rigid in front of Patton and holding out an arm to bar his progress. “Patton,” he says, his voice all soaked in an irritable brand of discomfort, “do you hear that?” It takes a moment, but after a few seconds, Patton can make out a little hint of sound drifting from the house and winding its way through the trees, a stilted, despairing thing that catches on the branches and leaves behind banners of hopeless sorrow. Something in Patton shifts and breaks down, before settling into place. Roman is crying.

Rushing forward doesn’t even require thought, but after the first few steps, his clothing suddenly goes all tight around him, jerking him to a stop, and Virgil’s voice rolls in over his shoulder as he tows Patton back in by the back of his shirt, a smooth, strong movement like a fine-tuned machine that puts him right back where he started. “Leave him alone,” Virgil says. Baffled, Patton spins out of his grip.

“He’s crying, Virgil!” he says, a chord in his chest growing tight with stress as his shoulders sink and his brows draw together, incredulous. Virgil only gives a little huff, though, swaying to the side and using a strong hand to seize Patton’s shoulder with the gentle force of a mother bear guiding her cubs. He shakes his head.

“He doesn’t need to be coddled right now. It’d feel too… undignified,” he finally finishes, rocking to the side once more, his shoulders drawn up in anxiety as he keeps Patton there.

Besides them, Logan nods. “I understand.” Patton only stares. Roman is right there, all broken and hurt and needing support, and he’s supposed to leave him alone to cry? His resolve hardening, Patton tires to tear away, only to be held back by Logan, too, this time. Spinning him around with a smooth movement that leaves Patton lagging behind a second or two, unsure of how he’s changed positions, Virgil grabs two sturdy fistfuls of his shirt and tugs him in with a movement just short of a yank, one that brings him right up next to Virgil’s face, where Virgil’s eyes can hit him like the winds of a storm, and grinds out, “ _Don’t._ ” Patton blinks. 

Virgil looks like he would be right at home in one of the folk tales Logan records, making his home among the words as a dark and shadowy villain, but no sooner does the picture come before it disappears as he draws back, timidly letting go of Patton. “I mean,” he stutters, hiding his eyes in the undergrowth, “he thinks — if you saw him crying, he’d think you would think less of him.” There’s a beat. “Ok?”

“Ok,” Patton relents, shifting back and forth on his feet as he sends glances back over his shoulder and to the house, which is heavy on the ground, weighed down by the knowledge of the hurt person that Patton knows is there. “I guess we can give him a few minutes.”

Adjusting his glasses, Logan announces, “It’s agreed, then.” When he turns to Virgil, it’s swift and precise, his feet clicking neatly into place. “In the meantime, we can get down to business. Virgil, if I may, I observed earlier that the manner in which you traverse the forest suggests a significant amount of practice doing so, which is inconsistent with the typical life of a courtier. What circumstances provided for this?”

Virgil blinks. “Um, well, I just was never really cut out for being nobility. I was bad at it and I didn’t like it, so I would always tag along on as many hunting trips as I could as a kid,” he explains, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “Out there, nobody was ever focused on me, only whatever they were trying to catch, and so I got to climb trees and stuff and practice staying really still so that I could get a better look at animals. Eventually, I got old enough that I could just go out on my own.” He shrugs. “I don’t really care about sports, though, so most of the time I just hang around out here.”

“Is that why you are here? You left in an effort to avoid your typical lifestyle, only for a coup to take place while you were absent?”

Twisting his face up in a little grimace like the disapproval of thunder announcing a faraway storm, he says, “No, I just wasn’t about to get caught up in a kingdom run by Dee.” Logan nods, as if to say, _fair enough._

With a sigh, Patton leans back against a tree. Logan is making do without his notebook, muttering to himself in an effort to solidify everything in his memory for later, and Virgil slips into the world of the woods like he’s never left it, reaching up to pull a twig off a tree with a sharp little yank and using his fingernails to peel off the soft, green outside layer in one flat little sheet before getting to work shredding it vertically, intently focused on his task. 

After a lifetime, Virgil pulls himself back up into the world around him, swiveling his head up and staying all quiet and still like he’s searching for something. After a second, Patton catches on as well: the only sounds around them are the chirping of birds and the rushing of the creek. Roman’s sobs aren’t among them.

Patton is off before Virgil can even say anything. He barley has the presence of mind to stop just before the stairs and compose himself, take stock of his body and his breathing and make sure that when he walks up, his footsteps don’t pound against the floor. Calling forth a smile that comes to him with the loyalty of an old dog, he steps across the threshold and into the house.

Roman is sitting with his head in his hands, his arms braced on the table. He’s struggling, the poor thing, all twisted up and curled in on himself, and Patton longs to take up his wrists and gently guide them away from his face, pull him in and hold him with all the steady security of the old, sturdy trees that stand outside. He takes a breath and knocks on the doorframe. “Hey,” he says, offering a soft little smile as Roman turns to face him, moving slowly and mechanically like ice that’s just started to melt, his eyes still red and his expression still hopeless. “Are you busy?”

Roman huffs out a little silent laugh. “No,” he says, a shaky sliver of humor tugging at the side of his mouth, “I’m not. Do you need anything?”

It is quiet; an overcast sky is gathered up by the ceiling. Shoving down a wince, Patton flits across the room, his footsteps filled with all the energy of the sprouting plants outside, and comes to rest his arms on the back of the chair next to Roman’s, chirping, “I’ve been looking for something new to put up over the fireplace — mantle’s getting a little old and dusty. Do you wanna help me try and make something?” Roman shrugs in that dead sort of way of his, where his eyes are blank and his body is empty, like a puppet without anyone to control it. “Great,” Patton says, packing the word with cheer in a feeble attempt to drive the gloom out of the room as he crosses over the worn floor, buzzing about like a hummingbird as he carefully pulls paper from a shelf and rifles through Logan’s drawer for a pair of pencils. He drops it all on the table with a clatter.

As Patton slides his chair, a worn-down thing made of wood smooth from age with a backing woven from strips of old clothes that tangle together in an eclectic network of colorful little squares and lines and dashes, out from under the table, Roman reaches forward with the agonizing hesitance of a trepidation-filled child carrying out a dare before finally resting the very tips of his fingers along one of the pencils. It rocks to the side once, shifts towards Roman like a gear clicking into place, and there’s a moment when they’re caught in a stalemate, Roman’s hand just one movement away from the pencil, which presses on the table with the weight of a mantle to be taken up, or a glove thrown to the ground in challenge.

But in the end he picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, dully contemplative. Patton smiles. “I think I’m gonna draw some flowers,” he says, taking a seat. “I’m not the best artist, but that’s alright! I have fun doing it.” Flowers are an easy standby; he’s stitched enough of them into clothes to be able to sketch them out quickly, a little circle surrounded by a symmetrical fan of curved petals. Roman’s started to get to work, too, putting his pencil to paper and using feathery little strokes that take his hand up and across the paper in a gentle line that wavers in the middle and smooths out again towards the end. Patton swings his feet back and forth.

“Did you have a nice nap? Feeling any better?”

Another shrug. “I guess.” Humming, Patton finishes his third little doodle, which has turned out to be something like a tulip, and searches his mind for any seeds that might grow into a real conversation. Just as he’s about to speak up, though, Virgil steps through the door and makes a beeline for his cloak, which is tossed across the back of a chair, and pulls it over his shoulders as he collapses into the seat, going all limp so that his legs fly out and his head falls to the table, nestled into his arms. Roman stops short, pulling his focus up off the paper. “What happened to you?” he asks, laying his hand to rest against the table, over the top of his drawing.

“Patton,” Virgil says, dragging out the word like the act of speaking it alone is exhausting him, “I just spent a significant portion of my day hearing about the different types of birds in the area. Help.”

“Aww, be patient. I know you just met Logan, and he can be a little much at first, but those are the words of someone who’s never seen how exited he gets when he gets to talk about something he’s interested in.” Virgil just grumbles, somehow finding a way to sink even further down against the table. “Do you want to draw with us?” Patton asks, holding up his page of doodles to show him. Virgil pulls himself up, shrugging. Across the table, the slightest hint of a smile flits across Roman’s face, a victory that leaves Patton internally celebrating. Hopefully, he says, “Roman, can I see yours?”

Shifting back in his chair, Roman ducks his head, fidgets with his pencil, and finally says, “Uh, sure,” sliding his paper across to Patton and resolutely fixing his gaze on the table below him, avoiding Patton’s reaction at all costs. After gliding across the table like it’s on ice, the drawing comes to a stop in front of Patton, who picks it up with gentle hands.

Awe falls over him like a ray of sunlight. Roman’s gone with the flowers, but instead of doodling a myriad of outlines like Patton, he’s focused on just one flower, a carnation with delicate, fluttery petals like butterfly wings, a few of them already shaded so that Patton can see how they crinkle; it’s not incredibly realistic, but it’s beautiful like a soft breeze, and Patton grins, squealing with delight.

“Oh, Roman, this is perfect!” he says, handing it back. Across the table, Roman ducks his head, a blush spreading across his face like a flower blooming, and gives a shy little smile.

“No, it’s nothing,” he insists, only to be hit with an armful of Patton, who’s sprung out of his chair, leaving it to crash against the ground, and tackled Roman in a hug that’s as tight as the handcuffs they’d gotten off of him earlier. It’s in that exact moment that Logan walks in. His even steps cross the doorway like the ticking of a clock, the heels of his shoes clipping against the floor only to cut off suddenly, pulling Patton’s face away from where he’s pressed it into Roman’s shoulder and up to find Logan, who’s already moving again, a steady hand falling on the table and picking up his notebook. He furrows his brows. “Stop that, Patton,” he says, “you appear to be causing Roman pain.”

“Ohmygosh!” Patton says, the words leaving him in a rapid gush of wind, the kind that dwells in the long rows between buildings and on the edges of mountains. He tears himself away just as fast, throwing himself back, but then his hands are pulled back in to flutter around him, flitting from his shoulders to his arms to the air besides him as he frets. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Bewildered by the sudden flurry of movement, Roman blinks.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he assures Patton, even venturing as far as to rest a hand on his shoulder. “You just got to some bruises, I’m afraid. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s too late; not only Patton, but Logan and Virgil are worrying, Virgil biting his lip as he fidgets with his cloak and Logan leaning forward with that gentle, imploring manner of his that always makes Patton feel like he’s treasured, a valuable thing to be treated with care. Moving with the poise of an ashamed child caught stealing freshly baked sweets, Roman turns to him. Logan places a hand on his other shoulder so that both of them are supporting him, now. “While, in general, there is not much to be done about bruises,” Logan supplies, “I can warm a bag of rice for you, if you wish. While it is certainly not a cure, it will likely help alleviate some of the pain.” With that, he sweeps past them and into the other room. Patton sends him off with a fond smile.

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” he says, turning to Roman, who snaps out of his care-induced state of awe with a shake of his head. 

Roman nods, his eyes tracking Logan with a look like everything is warm and soft and golden, dipped in honey, before sweeping that same look over to Patton, who melts into a little grin underneath it. “Thank you,” Roman says, ducking his head once again, and just like that he’s back to the hollow shell.

Something inside Patton curls around the very center of his chest, wrapping it in soft, soft ribbon before finally, decisively tugging it into tight determination. If Roman’s smile can fill the room with the saturated colors of a golden sunset when he’s all beaten down, Patton cannot wait to see how he smiles when he’s at his best.

xxxxxx

A few weeks later finds them spread about around the house, Patton’s hands buried in the damp soil of the garden as Logan sits to the side, using his orderly, cramped penmanship to make little markers for each plant. Having abandoned the task and left a handful of markers with elegant, looping handwriting in his wake, Roman dances his way across Patton’s field of vision in a series of square, practiced steps as he uses a stick to block blows from an invisible opponent. Covering up another seed, Patton reaches back to take a marker only for his hand to meet empty air; Logan has stopped.

Instead, he’s watching Roman, his eyes flicking from his feet to his hands to the “sword” he wields with fine-tuned movements, and oh, Patton knows that look. That’s the look Logan gets when he’s just itching to try something for himself, to bury his hands in it and roll it around between his fingers until he’s catalogued its shape, from how difficult it really is to whether he enjoys doing it to what, exactly, the process involves. Chucking, Patton reaches over to nudge him, making sure to use his elbow rather than his dirty hands. “You should go ask him to teach you, kiddo,” he says.

His eyes immediately lighting up, Logan darts up and sets off towards Roman, leaving Patton chuckling as he watches him go. Virgil plops himself down in his chair. Leaning back on his hands, Patton stretches out, sliding his feet out to rest in front of him as he watches Roman stop, lowering his weapon as Logan approaches with an adjustment of his tie, laying out his proposition as if he’s making a business deal. 

Before long, Roman is standing behind Logan, who moves with hesitant, studious slowness, his arms wrapped around him as he guides Logan’s hands through the motions in a slow dance, moving like they’re lazily drifting in water. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he turns to Virgil and hands him Logan’s discarded pen. “Make more markers for me?”

“Sure,” Virgil agrees, shrugging. And so they continue, Patton tilling the soft ground with his hands, making little wells for the seeds, tucking them in under the ground, and finishing it with a little stake from Virgil as snippets of Logan’s lesson (step to the left, now parry—perfect!) drift over from the edge of the forest. Once he’s done, he sits back to watch.

Logan’s a quick learner, lining up footwork and positioning his hands with precision, but his movements are choppy and stilted compared to Roman, who moves on muscle memory, seamlessly shifting through the positions with the grace and precision of a dancer even as he slows down for Logan. On a whim, Patton stands up and trots over.

“Good,” Roman is saying as he blocks a sturdy strike from Logan, “now your turn. I could swing from either direction, so be ready.” With that, he starts to push Logan back, telegraphing his movements to give him a chance to respond in time. As they shuffle and shift back across the ground, Logan’s face hardens in focus, his hands tightening around his stand-in sword as Roman’s movements start to come faster, harder, each swing sailing through the air, now, rather than simply drifting in it. Eventually, though, it gets too fast for Logan, who ducks out to the side. Patton applauds.

“That was so cool you guys! And Roman, kiddo,” he says, bouncing over to hug him from the side, “you’re really good at that. All that footwork and stuff looks really hard, and you were just going so fast before Logan came over, I almost couldn’t believe it!” Blushing, Roman chuckles, giving Patton his own one-armed hug.

“Thank you,” Roman says, a sincere smile like the feeling of sinking into a soft bed spreading across his face. In the few weeks he’s been here, he’s gotten better at accepting compliments, and so instead of protesting, he pulls back and takes a good look at Patton before turning back to the house, wrapping one hand around the back of his waist. 

“Well, it’s only the truth,” Patton says. “If I didn’t say anything, that would be a lie of omission, right, Logan?”

Straightening his shirt, Logan walks by with a brightness in his eyes. “I suppose you could come to that conclusion, when working with a loose definition,” he says as he passes them to walk across to Virgil, who’s accumulated a little pile of garden stakes at his feet. Roman tugs Patton in closer.

“Really, though,” he says, his eyes softening, “I cannot express how much you’ve helped me. If I could give you all the riches in the world, even then I would still fall short of communicating my gratitude. Patton, you are a wonder, and my life is brighter because of your place in it.”

It’s Patton’s turn to blush now, although he doesn’t turn away or hide his face, opting to break out into a big smile instead. “Aww, kiddo!” he says, wrapping Roman in another big bear hug, where he chuckles deep and soft; Patton can feel the vibrations in his chest.

He’s getting better. It’s happening steadily, slowly, the same way that the weather is getting warmer and warmer, imperceptible from day to day but glaringly obviously when Patton looks back to the ones when Roman would hardly speak or leave the house. _Yeah,_ he thinks, finally letting go of Roman, _it’s getting better._

xxxxxx

The sun is rising earlier. Patton can see it in Logan’s treasured pocketwatch, sure, but the plain knowledge can never compare to the depth of the feeling of it, the one like things inside of your are unfurling, waking up from their long winter sleep to frolic around in your chest and urge you up, up, up out of bed so that you can take the day in your hands, breathe it in, and start putting all that energy to good use. On this morning, he climbs out of bed and stretches, stretches, raises his hands to the sky as if he can greet the sun. The air is still chilly, so he tugs his sleeves down over his hands.

Across the room, Roman’s bed—well, Logan’s bed, really, but Patton’s gotten used to seeing Roman there—is empty. Patton and Logan have been friends far too long for cuddling up together at night to be uncomfortable, and so Patton’s given up his bed for Roman and a bundle of blankets for Virgil, who’s made himself right at home on the floor, used to it after years of camping. Giving them all a bright smile, he trots through the doorway and into the other room.

Roman, he’s learning, is not one for early mornings. Virgil says it’s because he’s a bratty prince who’s never had to wake up early, but Logan does the same thing some days, dropping his careful seriousness to cling to the blankets when Patton tries to pull them off of him, once even staying so resolutely stubborn that he’d let him pull him onto the floor right along with his sheets. Besides, Roman is the first one awake this morning. Slipping on a pair of socks, Patton pads into the other room, leaving Logan to tangle himself up in the blankets without Patton there to steal them back. 

Roman is curled up at the table, his legs tugged up to his chest so that his feet perch on the edge of the chair as he stares out at the window, silent and unmoving. There’s something bitter and watery in the air, something that weaves through the room like a needle and thread through fabric, moving in and out and around before suddenly tugging it tight into a little ball of crumpled up fabric. The serene quiet of the early morning is salty, tainted with sadness. Patton lets his cheerful energy run off of him like water. With a tentative step forward, he ventures, “Roman?”

The look Roman sends over his shoulder is panicked. Using the back of one hand to smudge the tears that run down his face the same way little streams of water run down a window, wavering and wandering as they trace out a swift little path, he lets all his defenses fall down in one big crash, leaving his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast. “Sorry,” he says, but the word is barely out of his mouth before Patton is flying across the room to wrap his arms around his shoulders and tug him in to his chest.

“Oh, honey,” Patton says, and when he sweeps his hand through Roman’s hair, Roman leans into it. “Let’s go back to your bed. It’ll be more comfortable, okay?” With a little nod, Roman pulls himself out of the chair and Patton braces an arm against the back of his waist, guiding him back into the other room. Virgil, who sits on the floor, his hair messy from sleep, quickly gets up and out of the way.

As they settle down on the edge of Roman’s bed, where Patton rubs his back with gentle, soothing circles, Roman sniffles again. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. Patton opens his mouth to respond, to tell him that he never, never needs to apologize for feeling, and that if Patton were to say sorry every time overcast winter skies creep into his chest and wrap around his heart, he’d be drowning in apologies, but Roman speaks before he can, saying, “You’ve all been so nice to me. I eat your food, and sleep in your bed, and take up your time and you just act like it’s nothing, but it’s _not._ ” He pauses to wipe his eyes. “And I just—I just—I’m not—you say I’m so good but I’m not,” he says, his words coming fast, now, like water rushing down a river, “and I’d rather you just quit trying to make me feel better because lying like that just makes it worse because I know it’s just out of pity and I suck at everything I like doing. I know I’m stupid and self-absorbed and annoying and loud, so just. Just stop pretending otherwise, ok? You don’t need to keep trying to complement me.” 

With each sentence, something in Patton’s chest seizes painfully. It’s so, so hard to see Roman hurting. Reaching up to brush the tears off of Roman’s face once again, Patton takes a deep breath in, his lungs filling with air as his mind fills with thoughts and feelings, and reaches out with a voice soft like falling snow. “Roman,” he says, “that’s not true. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been so lucky to get to be able to know you, to look at all the beautiful things you do and create, and to see the way you smile, all bright and deep and vibrant. And you know what I like especially about you?”

“What,” Roman says flatly, turning to look at the wall. Patton takes his hand.

“I love your _passion,_ Roman. You get so exited about art and beauty, just like Logan gets exited about the world around him, and when you do something you put your whole, vibrant self into it. It’s amazing to watch, kiddo,” he insists, catching a glimpse of Logan rolling over to face them, his hair a disordered mess and his eyes bleary from sleep, but focused on them nonetheless. With a shaky breath, Roman sinks further in on himself.

Patton sighs. Before he can reach out again, though, Roman gives a halfhearted jolt, his head turning to catch his other hand, which Virgil has taken up in both of his, his legs folded under himself as he looks up into Roman’s eyes with the same gaze Patton imagines he looks at animals that come close to him when he’s alone, an earnest intensity coated in a layer of soft, gentle cotton. “He’s right,” he says, his voice still gravely from sleep. As Roman furrows his brow, confused, Virgil continues, a delicate edge sliding into his words as he looks away to hide his eyes himself. “I was always jealous of you because you’re just so good at everything you do, you know? You can draw and sword fight and write poetry and all that, and you’re just… charming. People like you, Roman, and I was always envious of that. Sure, I get frustrated with you, but um,” he says, swallowing, “it was wrong to lash out at you like I did, okay? None of that—I’m sorry.”

Sniffling, Roman sighs, letting some of the tension run out of his body and lowering his head to bury his face in Patton’s shoulder, still ashamed and disbelieving, wrapped too tightly in self-deprecation for their words to reach him, not completely. They’ve just begun to dent those barriers. Though Patton’s sure it must mean something that they’re complimenting him without being obligated to — and god, this must be the first time he’s heard that without a nagging thought at the back of his head poking him insistently, telling him he’s only getting praise because he’s the prince — he’s still stuck in a hole he can’t climb out of, not yet. Determination tightens its grip on Patton’s shoulders.

Only a few feet away, Logan pushes himself up off his mattress, shuffling around until he’s sitting with his legs tucked to the side and the blankets pooled around him, clinging to the warmth of his body as if they’re unhappy to be getting out of bed, too. He yawns. As he fumbles around for his glasses, he begins to speak, his voice steady and strong, clear and precise, the same way it is when he’s unfolding a fact and laying it out for them to see. “Roman,” he says, finally finding his glasses, “Over the few weeks I’ve known you, you’ve demonstrated skill of a worthy caliber in every area, from swordsmanship to art. That is not my opinion; that is a fact. As an individual who makes a living hearing the stories and observing the skills of travelers, I can tell you with absolute certainty that you measure up more than adequately.” Taking a moment to breathe, he gives Roman a long, meaningful look, as if he can press his words into Roman’s mind with the weight of his gaze. 

“But even in a hypothetical world where you are not proficient at any of those things, one where you have never done anything worth mentioning in your entire life, there would be no possibility of you being worthless, and do you know why?” he implores as he stands up, tugging the blanket around his shoulders, and pads across the floor to sit with the rest of them. Roman stills. “You have immeasurable worth simply by virtue of existing as a human being. Roman, you are a wondrous, impossible compilation of qualities, one capable of thought, of moving beyond the standard measures of survival and not only establishing structures to benefit the operation of the world around you, but _making_ things. You are able to not only bring something new into existence, but to do it well, and while, of course, there is no such thing as a miracle, in the common vernacular, I believe we do call that miraculous.” 

Roman looks at Logan like he’s just solved the meaning of life itself. “Oh,” he says, something in his voice cracking and wavering like a toy boat out in the creek, and there, sitting among people who care about him, promptly bursts into tears. This, this is loud and anguished, not anything like the silent, broken tears from only a moment ago. Patton’s got him in a hug within seconds. 

What happened, to leave him so beaten down, thinking so little of himself? What, exactly, went down when he was thrown out of the kingdom? The same thoughts are right there on Logan’s face, too, though they are hidden behind that same little sheen of panic he always gets when someone’s crying. Patton ruffles Roman’s hair.

“He got me up in front of everybody,” Roman stutters through his sobs. “He destroyed my entire life — if any of it was ever real in the first place — and did it right in front of everybody, and they _laughed,_ ” he says, his voice breaking, and then again, quiet this time, a last little ripple in a pond, a distant echo, “they laughed.”

“Shhhh,” Patton soothes. He’s rocking him back and forth a little bit, now, matching the rhythm of the trees that wave in the wind outside as Virgil reaches up to put a hand on his knee and Logan gently takes hold of his shoulder. When he finally speaks again, it’s with a quiet voice in a quiet room that’s all empty and wrung out now that Roman’s tears have slowed down. “I’m sorry that happened to you, honey,” he says, leaving a little kiss on the top of his head. “That sounds terrible.”

“It was,” croaks Roman. “It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” There’s a moment of silence, then, one that settles in the tiny gaps between the floorboards, in the corners of the room, and under the beds, one that Patton fills by running his hands through Roman’s hair as he sniffles, still hiding away in Patton’s shirt. On the ground, Virgil shifts.

Time slips past them the same way clouds drift across the sky, slow and mindless and so soft that you don’t even notice they’ve moved until you think about where they were in the first place, and before long, sunlight is drifting through the little window with the full, saturated feeling of a warm afternoon. Finally, finally, Roman wriggles out of Patton’s grip. His eyes are still red as he ducks his head, more abashed than ashamed this time, and speaks. The words are soft and full of color.

“If that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, “you three are the best.”

With a little smile, Patton coos, ruffling Roman’s hair as he hugs him tight, like he can press all the joy back into him. It’ll take a long time to come back from everything, sure, but Roman’s already well on the road to being the vibrant person Patton’s seen little flashes of here and there in stolen moments that he treasures so much. Until then (and maybe even after) Roman will be surrounded by friends armed with hugs and reassurance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this sufficiently fluffy I'm not sure if it's sufficiently fluffy I should probably put more effort into knowing what my own standards are


End file.
